


In Plain Sight

by belleslettres



Series: Hidden in Plain Sight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Complete, Extremely Dubious Consent, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Polyjuice Potion, Post-War, Prostitution, Recovery, Rentboy Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-10-18 02:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: Almost three years after Draco sells himself to ahouse of pleasurein order to pay his war debts, Harry finally finds him, broken and abused. Harry brings him home to heal, to recover…This is the sequel toHidden in Plain Sight. This story will make so much more sense if you read that first. Thank you!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **If you haven’t already read[ Hidden in Plain Sight](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10462032), please go back and read that first, otherwise this fic will make no sense at all.**
> 
> Also: The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

_“It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Harry just holds him and repeats those words, over and over._

* * *

  


The door is open, which _never_ happens, and Draco has the vague impression that someone is standing there… someone who hands Harry a set of clean robes. Not the flimsy sort of robes that Draco wears between clients, but proper wizarding robes.

“We’re all set.” The voice is hard and sounds familiar, but Draco can’t be bothered to place it.

Harry helps Draco into the robes. “We’re leaving,” he says. “You owe that woman nothing.”

The light outside is too yellow, too bright, too _real_. There is too much noise. 

The squeeze of Apparition hurts.

The house they come to is quiet and dark. 

“I’ll make some tea,” the voice says and disappears down a hallway.

Harry leads him to the bathroom and starts the shower. He helps Draco take off the robes and step into the streaming water. Harry is barefoot and shirtless, but he is still wearing those Muggle jeans he likes so much. He doesn’t seem to mind that they are getting soaked as he helps Draco wash every inch of himself. 

With fingers slick with foamy soap, Harry washes off the touch of _so many_ people, healing hurts, seen and unseen, with whispered words. Gentle fingers wash his hair, pulling free the tangles as they do. There is nothing sexual about Harry’s touch… and it is the most intimate thing that has happened to Draco in years.

Tears— _his_ tears!—begin to flow and mix with the water that is running down his face.

~*~*~*~

It feels like a dream. The world is soft and foggy around the edges and Draco is finding it hard to focus on anything.

Except Harry.

Harry as he dries him carefully. Harry as he helps into soft flannel pajama bottoms and one of those stupid Muggle why-shirts, or whatever it is Harry calls them. This one is ratty and smells like Harry. 

_Harry. Harry. Harry._

Harry’s hands. Harry’s touch. Harry’s shirt.

Harry’s bed.

_No!_

Draco _cannot_ go there, and he pulls against Harry for the first time. 

There is a window. The draperies are dark and heavy but they are pulled back and sunlight streams in… onto a chair. And Draco sits in it because his legs won’t hold him up anymore.

He can see into a tiny overrun garden, and into a slightly better tended one behind a tall stone wall. He can see the backs of another row of houses and, beyond that what might be a park, lightly brushed with the first touches of spring.

_Breathe in… breathe out._

“Harry, go dry off. You’re making a mess,” the voice says. 

_Breathe in… breathe out._

“Have some tea,” the voice says, somewhere between an order and a question.

Draco wants tea— _he does!_ But he turns, automatically, almost unwillingly, toward the voice… the tea… and reaches for the cup.

The mug. It’s a rainbow mug and the hands holding it out for him are rough and flecked with ginger hair. 

Draco looks up into the face of Ronald Weasley. The voice. The softness fades a little; Draco isn’t ready to deal with edges.

“Easy, Malfoy,” he says, his voice steady, calming. “There’s a bruise healing potion in that. I can give you some Skele-Gro, too, if you need it. But you’ll have to take _that_ straight. And not on an empty stomach.”

Draco sips the tea… and finds that he can’t answer. 

Questions flood his brain, but he can give none of them voice.

“You’re all right, Malfoy,” Weasley says. “You’re at Harry’s house—Grimmauld Place… used to belong to the Blacks. You may have been here before, actually.”

He has. Not since he was very little, though. He wants to say so… to say _something_ … but he can’t. He _should_ be able to talk. He can cry. A touch of panic laces through him.

“Easy, Malfoy. You’re okay. That silencing curse was a nasty one. It might take a day or so to wear off completely.” 

Draco nods slowly. _Breathe in… breathe out._

“I brought soup, too. Do you want some?”

Draco nods again.

Weasley hands it to him and then takes a few steps back, giving him the space he so desperately needs. The fact that he cannot stand to have Weasley within arms’ reach when he had a complete stranger _inside_ of him just a few hours before seems beyond ridiculous…. 

Draco is appalled when his hands begin to shake, rattling the spoon against the sides of the bowl.

“You’re all right, Malfoy,” Weasley says again.

By the time Harry returns, Draco has made a credible attempt at eating his soup. It’s thick and golden, and with Weasley lounging against the doorframe, Draco can bring the spoon to his mouth without spilling any.

“Maybe you should sleep?” Harry suggests, nodding towards the bed. 

_No!_

“Transfigure the chair to make it sort of a recliner, Harry,” Weasley suggests, his voice low. “And leave the curtains open.”

“But…”

“Trust me, Harry.” 

Weasley pulls a blanket out of the chest at the foot of the bed, inspects it closely, gives his wand the gentle wave of a cleaning spell, and then another, more vigorous and it becomes a violent shade of orange which clashes horribly with… well everything. The Chudley Cannons. 

Draco feels the corners of his mouth turn up a little. 

With a roll of his eyes, Harry takes the blanket and covers him with it. 

“Harry.” He forces the word past unused vocal cords, past the familiar choking feeling. It sounds harsh, painful. It _is_ painful. “Stay.”

“Always.” 

Harry climbs into the chair, under the horrible blanket, and Draco thinks Weasley enlarges the chair a bit more. As soon as Draco feels Harry’s arms around him, he falls asleep.

Safety.

~*~*~*~

If Draco tries hard enough, he can keep the fog pulled comfortably around him. He stares out into the garden. He can see daffodils peeking through the tangles of last year’s weeds and dried leaves.

He thinks he might go out and tend them a bit. Someday. Not today.

Weasley and Granger seem to live in the house with Harry, but he doesn’t see much of them. Weasley, he gathers, is an Auror; Granger works in the Department of Magical Legal Affairs. 

Harry is _not_ an Auror, which surprises Draco, and while he is in and out of the house quite a bit, Draco cannot seem to figure out what he actually _does_. What he doesn’t do is hover, and for that Draco is grateful. Conversation is hard, and even though Draco cannot sleep without Harry’s arms... the day is coming, he knows, when Harry will want _more._

Solitude is better. Solitude is safety.

Weasley pops in once or twice a day, staying at the edge of the fog, asking if there is anything that Draco needs.

Granger tends to shatter the fog, dragging the world, and Draco’s place in it, into crisp focus. Draco thinks it’s probably a good thing, but he rather wishes she wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry, Draco, I can’t have her arrested,” Granger says. She’s brought tea, and seems to intend to stay while Draco drinks it. “She hasn’t broken _any_ laws. I think she may have entirely shredded the concept of human decency… but she didn’t break the law.”

Granger looks crushed. 

“I know,” Draco says, the words still not coming easily to him. “I did read the contract before I signed it.”

“Did you?”

“I knew what I was getting myself into… I just…” Draco feels his voice fall away, remembering the cold and the hunger and the dirty feeling of knowing that he would have gone with _anyone_ and done _whatever_ they asked of him… just so he could make his reparations payment, just so he wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. With a sick twist in his stomach, he knew he would have signed Elladora’s contract whatever it said…but he did read it first.

“I thought it would be better than Azkaban,” he whispers. 

He is grateful when Granger doesn’t ask if it actually was. He still isn’t sure.

“The others?” Draco asks. He never saw anyone else… but there must have been other people who worked there. 

“I interviewed them,” Granger says, fingering her Department of Magical Legal Affairs badge. “Three girls and a boy. All Squibs. They all seem to be there voluntarily.”

_I was there voluntarily._

Not all of Draco’s intended words actually make it _into_ words… and by the patient blink of Granger’s eyes, he thinks maybe they haven’t this time. “I was there voluntarily,” he repeats, certain that it is out loud this time.

 _I volunteered._ He isn’t sure if that makes it better or worse. 

“True,” Granger agrees. “But they don’t owe her a ridiculous sum of money. They have set hours, access to healing potions, even the ability to refuse clients. And they can talk. Not to their clients, apparently, but to each other. And me.”

“Can they cry?” he asks. 

He didn’t mean to say _that_ out loud. For almost three years his only conversant was himself… he hadn’t bothered to censor his thoughts, they were one of the few things he actually owned after all; and, of course, he hadn’t had the ability to put them into audible words. 

“I don’t know, Draco,” Granger says softly.

The light in the white, windowless room was bright, but it was a suffocating, unnatural bright… white and raw, not golden like sunlight or candlelight. Draco blinks and he is back in the room… waiting. 

Waiting for the Polyjuice to force him into someone else’s body, waiting for the next client to come through the door… will they be gentle or will they hurt him? What will they want from him? What will they _take_ from him?

Waiting. Draco was always waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Waiting for it to be over.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

“You’re all right, Draco,” Granger says. “Do you want me to open the window?”

He nods, concentrating on breathing. 

It was Weasley who first thought to open the window. Despite the obvious signs of spring, the air is chill, but it is bitingly fresh and Draco finds it is easier to breathe when the air stings his lungs. 

At first Harry objected, concerned that Draco would catch a cold, or actually freeze. The look on Weasley’s face was priceless. “You’re a Wizard, Harry. Cast a bloody warming charm!” he said. 

Draco had smiled. A real one. His first in since before the war. 

“Better?” Granger asks. “Oh, that reminds me.” She places his wand down on the arm of the chair. 

_His_ wand.

Almost hesitantly, as if he isn’t sure it’s real, isn’t sure he can really touch it, he picks it up. Magic thrums through him.

“I got it cleared this morning,” she says. “You paid your reparations. It’s yours again.”

Draco looks at her, his eyes threatening to overflow. _He has his wand._ He is no longer helpless… unarmed… subject to the whims of others. 

He wants to say, thank you. But he can’t. A squeeze like the crush of Elladora’s silencing curse grips his throat. 

Granger nods. She understands. “Cast your own warming charm, Draco,” she says.

He swallows, and swallows again, and does.

~*~*~*~

After three uncomfortable nights on the transfigured chair, Draco moves to the bed.

_He can do this. He just has to remember to breathe._

Harry’s eyes really are beautiful, but they are closed now as he leans into Draco’s kisses. Draco tries to find his rhythm as he moves his lips against Harry’s, as their tongues dance… but he can’t quite. The movements aren’t natural, they feel _forced_ , and Draco can’t remember how to unforce them… he can’t remember how to kiss and mean it.

Draco pulls on the drawstring of Harry’s pajama bottoms and slips his hand inside. And Harry’s eyes pop open, startled. 

“Draco? What are you…? I mean you aren’t even properly healed yet. Are you?” 

He isn’t. The healing and nourishing potions have been working miracles… but Draco is far, far from healed. 

“Don’t you… want me… like this?” Draco askes, his voice trembling. 

Harry pulls Draco’s hand up and to his mouth. He kisses the inside of his palm. “I will _always_ want you,” Harry says, interlacing their fingers. “But not like this. Not when you’re not ready.” 

Draco feels hot tears spilling out of his eyes. “I want to make you happy,” he whispers, not looking at Harry. 

“I _am_ happy. You’re here, I’m _beyond_ happy. But if you’re doing something that hurts you or scares you or even that you just don’t want to do…. Draco, that will _never_ make me happy.” Harry runs his thumb along his cheekbone, smearing the tears. “Look at me. Please.” 

It takes him a moment, but Draco finally raises his eyes to meet Harry’s. 

“I love you. Okay? I’m not going to stop.” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t know how to do this….” He sort of collapses on the bed, turning away from Harry, his eyes firmly downcast again. “Harry, I fuck people. I think that’s all I remember… People I never wanted, people who never wanted _me_ … they didn’t even see my face… they used me, but they didn’t see me….” He pulls his knees to his chest and lets the tears fall. “I don’t remember… I _can’t_ remember…” 

“Shhhh…,” Harry wraps his arms around him and presses his lips to his shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

“Harry, I don’t remember who I am….” 

Harry’s arms tighten. “I remember. You’re Draco Malfoy. You can be a bit of a git at times, but I think I love you all the more because of it. You have this perfect Pureblood smile, and you use it like a mask, or sometimes a weapon, but the moment that smile becomes _real_ , Draco, it can light up a whole room. When you direct that precious smile at me, I almost can’t breathe and all I can think about is kissing you." 

Harry is kissing him. His mouth presses against his shoulder again and again before moving along his back… to his other shoulder… soft and gentle, with an occasional touch of tongue. 

“You’re excellent at Potions, and your hands move so perfectly, like a dance when you’re brewing… but you like Transfiguration more, and you like Charms even more, but you would never tell anyone because making a teacup waltz with a spoon is just too damn whimsical.... You turn up your nose at “pub food” and you won’t eat meat unless you absolutely have to and you love sweets. You know that treacle tart is my favorite, even though I never told you, and you used to bring it for us to share and then let me eat your piece too, which is how I knew, for the first time, that you loved me.” 

A gentle pull on his hip, an invitation to turn back towards Harry. Draco complies. Because he _wants_ to. Because he wants _Harry._ He will always want Harry. It’s the only thing he’s sure of. 

“You are strong and clever and cunning, and you can be downright vicious when someone hurts someone that you care about. You would do anything—literally _anything_ —for your mother. She calls you her little dragon, and you say you hate it, but it’s a lie; you love it. And you are brave. So much braver than you give yourself credit for. You practically threw your fucking _wand_ at me, which is the _only_ reason that I’m alive today.” 

“Harry…” 

Harry is crying now, too. Their foreheads are pressed together, and Draco can feel Harry’s tears, mixing with his own, and running together down his cheeks and over his chest. “And you’re stubborn. Too stubborn to die, too stubborn to spend the rest of your life in Azkaban, too stubborn to let them beat you. You did what you had to do and you _survived._ You’re alive and you’re here. And I love you.” 

“How? _Why?_ I sold myself… to that woman… to that place. I sold my whole _self_ , Harry.” Draco’s voice breaks. “I know you know. You were _there_. You know what I did… what I _let_ them do to me.” 

“Shhh… Draco… You didn’t have a choice. I _know_ that. And I am _so_ sorry. It was terrible and horrible… I can’t even imagine… and you should _never_ have had to.” Harry’s voice is in tatters. “And I am so, _so_ sorry for my part in it. For not knowing how much you needed from me… for not seeing you. How could I _not_ have known it was you?” 

Draco can’t answer and just lets Harry cry, shaking against him, holding him tightly. 

“You survived it, Draco,” Harry says at last. “You walked out of there.” 

For a moment, Draco _knows_ who he is. Not a body, used and broken, but the real Draco Malfoy. “Potter, if you hadn’t found me when you did, I would have _crawled_ out of there with the ends of my ribs sticking into my lungs.” 

Harry’s snort is not mirthful, and he palms the tears off his face. “I know you would have. Stopping only to make crude gestures at everyone you saw on your way out.” 

“Do you really think so?” The moment is over and Draco is lost again, his voice is trembling. 

“I know so.” 

Draco cups Harry’s cheek, steadying them both. Then slowly, _so_ slowly, Draco moves his mouth toward Harry’s. Harry is still. He doesn’t move and he doesn’t blink, and when their lips meet, the kiss is sweet and chaste. 

And very, _very_ real. 

When Draco pulls back, he is crying again and shaking and not sure if he wants to keep kissing Harry… or to run away and hide forever. 

Harry’s hand reaches out, so slowly, and brushes away his tears. “We’re going to get through this, Draco. Together. I promise.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: Draco is going to experience a very vivid flashback in this chapter. Be careful.

Draco expected to wake up feeling strong. Or at least stronger.

He doesn’t. 

He feels raw and naked and more fragile than he has… maybe ever. It takes him a while to realize: the fog is gone. It disappeared in the night, like fog does after wind and a heavy rain. 

The sunrise is terrifying in its beauty. 

Harry is gone, too, but that hardly matters. He left tea, under a warming charm, and buttered toast, _not_ under a warming charm, next to a note on which he scratched out the words “I love you” along with a promise to be back by lunchtime. 

Draco eats the toast and sips the tea, his hands shaking: It is the fourth day, and he has decided to go downstairs.

It is his intention to go out into the garden, but he makes it only as far as the drawing room. He _meant_ to walk out of the drawing room and into the garden… but he can’t quite make himself do it. 

Sitting on a footstool is a copy of _Pride and Prejudice._ He supposes Granger is reading it, but he picks it up and settles onto a chair by the window. 

The next day he stands in the doorway for a good five minutes before finally stepping out into the sunshine. The air is chill, but the sun is warm on his face, its light yellow. The weeds that are hindering the growth of the daffodils never stood a chance.

~*~*~*~

The daffodils are coming to the end of their season and the tulips, bursts of pink and purple and stunning red, are thriving.

The household settles into a routine: Weasley and Granger go to work, Harry goes wherever he goes, Draco works in the garden, drinks those god-awful nutrition potions, and takes a lot of naps.

And he reads. 

The library at Grimmauld Place is full of books… but it is obviously rather short on the Muggle fiction Draco has become attached to. Sometimes he sneaks into the room Granger and Weasley share and nicks one of Granger’s books—he knows she doesn’t mind—but her tastes run more towards romance, well-written, of course, but light enough to make up for the heavy tomes she reads for work.

One day he finds _The DaVinci Code_ on his bed. He doesn’t make it into the garden the next day, which Draco pretends is the fault of the rain.

They take turns cooking. 

Harry is an excellent cook, but he hates it. Weasley is a terrible cook, and on his nights he usually suggests that they grab a bite at the pub—something Draco won’t even consider—or he brings home takeaway; Draco is mildly annoyed to find himself enjoying various exotic dishes, purporting to hail from all corners of the globe, out of paper boxes or plastic trays. 

Granger is an adequate cook, but she serves each dish with a side of snide comments about how they are supposed to _share_ cooking responsibilities, and that, no Ronald, bringing home boxes of Indian food does _not_ constitute cooking, and that it isn’t fair that she should have to do all the marketing just because she’s a _girl_.

Draco feels slightly guilty, sitting back and sipping his wine, while Weasley and Granger bicker. It feels like before the war, it feels like _normal._ Slytherin house rather enjoyed keeping track of their fights, some of which were epic. Harry joins him as Weasley shouts that if boiling pasta and heating up jarred sauce constitutes cooking then ordering takeaway does. 

“He’s going to end up with his bowl of pasta _on his head_ ,” Harry whispers and Draco laughs. It feels good. 

Draco is somewhat surprised to find that, not only does he enjoy cooking, he is good at it. Granger lends him _Cooking: It’s Magic_ , which she says she doesn’t want back—he gathers the inscription from Molly Weasley, noting how it’s a wife’s duty to keep her husband well-fed and how she marked out some of Weasley’s favorites, might have something to do with it. 

Draco flips through the marked pages… Meatloaf… Shepherd’s Pie… Steak and Kidney Pudding… _Never going to happen…_

He tries a curry recipe which turns out rather well, and a few pasta dishes. He thinks he will have to remember to ask Granger to find him some more cookbooks, ones with lighter dishes, ones with less meat and more spices.

~*~*~*~

Draco still cannot properly sleep without Harry’s arms, but he has made his peace with the bed. He can climb into it, and snuggle against Harry, and absorb all the comfort, all the safety, all the _love_ the other man has to offer, without feeling like he needs to do _more._

For now, at least, the bed is for sleeping. 

And Harry’s lips are for kissing… and Draco can’t quite get enough.

Harry is gentle and almost disturbingly respectful of Draco’s boundaries. They can kiss, touch, and even taste… but now that Draco’s body belongs to Draco again, its contours must remain inviolate.

Harry’s tongue brushes against Draco’s lower lip before the kisses slide away, down his jaw, to the spot on his neck that he loves so much. Draco throws his head back, giving Harry better access, and moans. 

He can feel Harry, hard against his own hardness, and rubs gently against him. He feels, rather than hears, Harry’s breath hitch. Harry doesn’t move, trying to gauge the proper response to _that…._ He is always so careful not to push, but sometimes Draco almost wishes that Harry would just grab him and shove him against the wall and _shatter_ all his fears and misgivings. 

Almost. 

Like they did when they were sixteen. They were arguing. Harry shoved Draco. Or did Draco shove Harry? It hardly matters. One moment they were on the verge of fighting, the next they were grinding against each other. Then there was a kiss that was all teeth and tongues… and then they were coming all over each other’s fingers. 

Draco came back to himself with a piece of the castle digging into his back, Harry’s hand still on him, in a corridor that they were just plain _lucky_ was deserted. Harry’s pupils were blown wide and the expression on his face was one of awe, not horror. 

“What… just happened?” Harry asked. 

“I don’t know,” Draco admitted. “But I hope it happens again soon.” Draco grabbed him, before he could turn tail and flee, and kissed him. Gently.

Draco moans again, this time sounding of hurt and frustration… and Harry recognizes it as such. “We’ll get there, Draco. We will.” Harry’s fingers are light on his cheek. “I know what you’re thinking… and if I was _sure_ it was right, I would have done it already.”

Draco stiffens. Part of him _wants_ Harry to test the theory. Part of him is terrified of what he will learn if he does. None of it matters… Harry won’t do anything until he is positive Draco is ready. 

Draco is relieved… and just a little bit annoyed. 

Really, he just wants to _know._

“Harry,” he asks, in an effort to change the subject, “when you leave… where do you go?”

Harry sighs. “To save the world, I guess.”

“Haven’t you already done that?” Draco asks. Conversation is coming back to him. Slowly. 

Harry smiles. “There’s always something else to be done. Today I was at the hospital—a Muggle hospital. There are babies there, tiny, tiny babies who are born addicted to drugs. Kind of like illegal potions, you know? And they are so tiny and so sick and they go through withdrawal and it _hurts_ them and they just need someone to hold them, and tell them it’s okay, even though they are way too little to understand… and, well, I just do that sometimes. 

“Another time… maybe the soup kitchen, or a pet shelter, or to the old folks home, or to a school that needs volunteers, or to the pediatric ward in the hospital… some of those kids are _so_ sick and _so_ brave and they think my tricks are real magic….”

At some point Harry’s smile has turned to tears.

“And are they? Real magic?” 

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Harry…”

“There’s always somebody to save, yeah? Ron told me to find _someone_ to save… when I couldn’t find you. It was only ever just a couple of hours at a time. But I was getting _nowhere_ looking for you. And I think it kept me sane. Knowing I was helping someone.”

“You really looked for me?”

“Every single day. I never stopped.” 

“I’m so sorry, Harry…”

This time when Draco kisses Harry, it is Draco’s tongue that swipes across Harry’s lips… and, just for the briefest moment, slips inside.

~*~*~*~

He writes to his mother, apologizing for his lack of contact. She says she understands, she says she knows he was busy—working hard to pay his reparations. He doesn’t tell her how he spent the last three years… and she doesn’t ask. One of his mother’s great gifts is the ability to simply _not know_ the things she doesn’t want to know.

She tells him she has a small cottage just outside of Compiègne and asks him to visit. He tells her he will come soon. He is lying… but he wishes he wasn’t.

One day a few bags of clothes appear on Draco’s bed: Granger has gone shopping for him. 

Draco doesn’t really _mind_ wearing Harry’s clothes… though everything hangs off him, the jeans are a bit too short, and none of it is really his style. These clothes are still Muggle and still fairly casual—including a pair of fitted jeans which Draco is surprised to discover that he actually loves—but they suit him _far_ better than anything Harry has. 

When he thanks her, she blushes. 

He suspects the clothes are a not-so-subtle hint that he should actually go out of the house… further than the garden. 

Draco is not ready. Sometimes he stands by the windows in the dining room, watching people pass… sometimes two people go past, sometimes twenty, but eventually he sees someone who reminds him of a client. Or of himself, wearing someone else’s face. Draco’s hands start to shake. Sometimes tears fall. And always—always—he lets the curtain fall shut, returning the dining room to its accustomed gloom. 

Granger also brought him a book on Middle Eastern cooking and another containing dozens of things he would have _never_ thought one could do with pasta. Weasley endlessly compliments his homemade ravioli—even though they don’t have a speck of meat in them. Draco usually cooks on Granger’s night, too, especially since her marketing has nearly doubled—with Draco often requesting hard-to-find spices, or a _specific_ kind of cheese. 

His garden is thriving. Peonies blossom and fade away. Daises, irises, and day lilies bloom. Besides the flowers, Draco has added some herbs. Whenever he walks past the lavender or the thyme he brushes his hand against it, releasing scents he finds soothing. 

Still, another month goes by before Draco will consent to leave the house—and then only with Harry.

~*~*~*~

They walk to a coffee shop just a few blocks away. Draco, who is remembering to breathe, holds Harry’s hand. Harry rubs his thumb across the back of his hand, and he looks so _damn_ happy, as if they are a regular couple, young and in love… instead of the Savior of the World and someone who feels like he is walking naked down a glass sidewalk.

Draco concentrates very hard on _not seeing_ the people who pass them.

The cool air hits Draco as he steps inside. Coffee, chocolate, and the rosy perfume of the older woman sitting by the door reach his nose and he breathes in deeply. Pleasurably. She glances up, sees their joined hands, and gives them a small smile before returning to her book. _Pride and Prejudice,_ Draco notes with some amusement. 

The woman behind the counter is saggy in all the wrong places, her greying hair sporting two light blue stripes that frame her face. She has an eyebrow ring, two nose rings, and three rings piercing her lower lip. “What can I get you, love?” she asks. 

The question, unreasonably, takes Draco by surprise, and he feels his throat close. 

“Er… I’ll have a vanilla latte,” Harry says, squeezing his fingers.

Draco squeezes back and forces his throat to open, forces his voice to obey him. “Cappuccino, please.”

Harry glances at him. “Not something sweet?”

And suddenly Draco can breathe again. Easily. “Aren’t you going to buy me a slice of that chocolate cake, too?”

“Always. To share?” 

“Nope.” Draco feels a smile on his face. He feels it all the way up to his eyes. He sees Harry’s face light to match. 

“Er…,” Harry turns back to the woman behind the counter. “So the chocolate cake… and… erm… a slice of cherry cheesecake, too, please.”

They sit in the corner and eat and laugh and drink coffee. Draco does share his chocolate cake with Harry. Of course.

~*~*~*~

It is still another two weeks before Draco will leave the house _without_ Harry… to the coffee shop with Weasley, to the market with Granger. Draco still has trouble remembering to talk, but Granger talks enough for both of them, and Weasley doesn’t seem to mind the silence.

He is with Weasley the first time he sees one of his clients. By now he can nearly always make passersby on the street stay who they really are… and not morph into someone he knows. Intimately. But there is no mistaking this man—the ruddy face, the broad shoulders and blunt fingers, the layer of fat overlaying an even thicker layer of muscle. He was _not_ gentle and he had a preference for one of the emaciated models, one of the ones where it wasn’t immediately obvious if they were male or female.

Male, as it happened; Draco was in a position to know. 

Suddenly Draco can’t breathe. At all. _Breathe in… breathe out._ Nothing happens. 

“You’re okay, Malfoy,” Weasley says. He doesn’t try to touch him. In fact, he takes a step or two away, blocking Draco’s view of the man’s retreating back as he does so. Weasley’s wand is still up his sleeve, but his fingers are on it. “He didn’t see you.”

That’s not entirely true. The model the man preferred could have been a caricature of the man Draco is. Draco has seen the picture—the model is excruciatingly thin, all points and angles, pale to the point of ashen, with bleach-blond hair and almost colorless eyes.

The man saw Draco… and just for a moment hard flinty eyes lit into foggy grey ones. The average man on the street might not have known what that look means, but Draco knows. 

It means a backhand across the face. It means choking on the man’s cock. It means bruises on his hips and being taken without enough preparation, each stroke burning. It means being forced into his own orgasm, a mockery of pleasure, cold sneaking through his belly like the touch of a Dementor. It means being tossed aside, something easily discarded, as the man dresses slowly above him. 

“Until next time,” he says. Always. 

It means the door shutting behind him, leaving Draco on the floor of the white, windowless room, shaking and sobbing and in pain, his eyes burning from the tears he is unable to shed.

Draco doesn’t know how many times he endured the man’s touch… but the last time… _the last time…_ had been during those endless three days… the days in between when Draco thought he would never see Harry again, and when Harry pushed open the door, held him in his arms, and promised that everything was all right.

_Until next time._

“Breathe, Malfoy. You’re okay.” 

“I want to go home,” Draco says, his voice so small he can barely hear it. 

“Come here,” Weasley says, holding out his arm. 

Draco grabs it—the first time he has touched anyone other than Harry—and Weasley places his hand over Draco’s. They are gone before he can remember that Apperating in Muggle London is just not something one does. 

They land in the front hall of Grimmauld Place, Weasley frowning and Draco shaking, gasping for air, tears streaming down his face. For a long moment they stand like that, Weasley’s hand still firmly on Draco’s. 

“You’re all right. You’re safe. You’re back at Grimmauld Place.” 

_Breathe in… breathe out._

_Breathe in… breathe out._

Weasley releases him, and Draco turns, heading for his bedroom. For the chair by the window. For safety. 

“Draco, don’t.” Weasley’s eyes are soft, though his voice is firm. “Don’t go into that room. Go into the garden. Or the kitchen. Go somewhere where _you_ are in control.”

Draco’s hand squeezes the bannister. He is breathing but not much else. 

“The roses are blooming,” Weasley says. “I’ll go make tea.”

~*~*~*~

Weasley brings him tea and the battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ that both Draco and Hermione have been dragging from room to room and not finishing. He has no idea why… he thinks the story is excellent. And a blanket, which is fortunately _not_ the vibrant orange of the Chudley Cannons, but a soft creamy white.

Clashing with horrid Victorian wall paper is one thing. But clashing with his beautiful roses. _That_ is not to be allowed. 

True, the roses had been planted years ago by some distant Black relative… but they are _Draco’s_ roses now and they curtain over the garden bench in the purest white and the most passionate red. Here and there a rose the color of first love blooms, whisper pink. 

“Thank you,” Draco says. “For everything.”

“You’re all right, Malfoy.”

“I… I know,” Draco says, a little surprised to find that he _means_ it.

Draco reads for hours before going inside to make dinner. He’s not sure whose turn it is—Harry’s, he thinks—but he drags out _Cooking: It’s Magic_ and finds the recipe for Shepherd’s Pie. 

It turns out rather wonderful… for Shepherd’s Pie. Which means that Draco will consent to actually eating some of it. He stubbornly serves it beside a huge pile of greens. 

“Malfoy, this is perfect,” Weasley compliments. 

Draco doesn’t think that Weasley would fail to mention his… _moment_ … to Harry. But Harry doesn’t mention it to _him_ , and they curl up peacefully together.

In the morning, Draco waits until everyone leaves, Weasley and Hermione for work, Harry to do his magic tricks for desperately sick children, then he, quite alone, marches out the front door of Grimmauld Place. 

Marching might be overstating the matter a little. 

First he showered, taking ridiculous pains with his hair, which really _is_ too long; he probably should have let Hermione cut it when she offered. Then he dressed in those jeans and his favorite of the new button-down shirts she bought him. He checked that he had some Muggle money and walked to the front door. He opened it, took a deep breath, and shut it again. Twice more, he opened the door, the second time stepping out onto the stoop, before going back inside. 

Fortunately, Grimmauld Place’s wards extend all the way to the bottom step of the stoop, so none of the Muggles passing by on the street could witness such nonsense. 

_Enough! Who is in charge here?_

Draco will permit only one answer to that question. And, without bothering with the deep breath, he simply takes that last step off the stoop and onto the street. 

Grimmauld Place is grand, if you like macabre Victorian as a decorating style, but Draco is unable to tell if the neighborhood surrounding it ever matched. In any case, most of the neighboring houses are broken into small flats, and the street hovers right on the border between quaint and slummy. 

The existence of the coffee shop is what makes it quaint, he supposes, pushing open the door, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do—rather than a… quest… requiring every ounce of bravery Draco possesses. 

The woman behind the counter has abandoned her blue stripes and dyed all her hair a vivid pink. “Cappuccino, love?” she asks him. 

“Er… I think I’d rather have a vanilla latte today,” he says. 

She makes the drink and hands it to him with a smile that’s a bit too knowing. 

He takes it to a seat that is not by the window and not in the back corner and pulls _Pride and Prejudice_ out of his pocket. He can probably finish it today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bad news is… this chapter is fairly short. But I thought our boys deserved this moment _now_ (meaning What Happens Next isn’t written yet, but I didn't think any of us would want to wait any longer) and without any other distractions. So, the good news is… this story will have at least four chapters. You’re welcome.

Draco is sitting in the middle of the bed, wearing only a pair of boxers, when Harry walks out of the bathroom. 

“You, Harry Potter, are wearing far too many clothes,” he says with a slight smirk. 

Harry is clad only in boxers and a shirt that is so ragged and so threadbare that it can scarcely be called a shirt. “Am I?” 

Draco nods as Harry climbs onto the bed. 

Draco’s mouth catches Harry’s and he nips lightly at Harry’s lower lip until Harry opens his mouth to him. Sneaky fingers slide up under the shirt, his hands ghosting Harry’s ribs and chest, barely touching. He gently thumbs a nipple. “Oh yes. Take it off. The pants too.”

Harry pulls back. “Draco…”

Draco cocks his head. “Scared, Potter?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s eyes are hot, but his voice trembles. 

Draco leans forward, his lips meeting Harry’s. “Me too,” he says. “And I am damn sick of it.” 

“But…”

Draco silences Harry with another kiss. He nibbles gently for a moment before pulling back. “There’s a difference between being afraid and letting your fear control you. Surely I shouldn’t have to explain that to a Gryffindor?” he says, a thread of a smile running through his words. 

“You’re not a Gryffindor,” Harry says, chasing his lips. “You’re a Slytherin. You lot are supposed to be all about self-preservation.” 

“Believe me, Harry,” he says seriously, “this is all about self-preservation.”

Harry’s eyes are wide and green and maybe a little hurt. 

Draco uses his fingertips, and a bit of nail, to trace patterns on Harry’s back and chest and Harry shivers under his touch. Draco can feel the gooseflesh and pulls one hand out of the shirt to run his fingers down the inside of Harry’s arm… and is rewarded with a sharp gasp of pleasure. “Self-preservation, self-discovery, self-indulgence, maybe, because this is something I have been wanting to do for a very, _very_ long time.” 

Harry brings his hand to Draco’s cheek, and gently… so gently cups it. “Are you okay?”

Draco snorts. “No. I’m fucking terrified.”

Harry runs his thumb across Draco’s cheek. With his other hand, he interlaces their fingers. He watches Draco with an intensity that makes Draco want to raise his Occlumency shields. He doesn’t. He wouldn’t… even if Harry were even a mildly skilled Legilimens… which he isn’t. Draco opens his thoughts to Harry… but it is no use; Harry couldn’t find his way into Draco’s mind with an engraved invitation and a road map. 

“What do you want me to say?” Draco asks, his voice trembling. 

“Whatever you want.”

“I went to the coffee shop this morning. By myself.” He thinks sounds a touch petulant. Like a toddler who is of the firm opinion that he can dress himself. 

Emotions flit across Harry’s face… concern… respect… fear… others Draco can’t quite discern… jealousy, maybe. Harry’s eyes are wide, open to him. With a little probing he could probably find out. But he doesn’t.

“You know, those lattes you like are crap. Cloying.” 

Harry smirks. “You love sweets.” 

“Not sweet _coffee_. I like my coffee bitter… with something sweet _next_ to it. Chocolate cake. Or cheesecake.” He smiles. “Whatever.” 

“Bitter coffee… why am I not surprised?” 

“Harry…” Draco has no idea what he’s going to say.

“What do you want?” Harry asks softly. 

“I want you naked. Lying down. On this bed.”

Harry does it, breaking eye contact for no longer than the fraction of a second it takes to pull off his shirt; Draco isn’t even sure that he blinks. 

Draco leans over him, relacing their fingers, his other hand running over the other boy’s brow, jawline… searching his eyes. “I love you,” he whispers, before dropping his mouth to Harry’s. He kisses him… probing… sucking… caressing… making Harry moan… before moving down his jaw… his neck… Draco trails kisses and tiny nips across his chest, down his ribs, and Harry lies there, shivering a little and whimpering and arching into Draco’s touch. 

“I love you, too,” he says, the words coming out in little gasps as Draco drags his mouth lower. 

“Harry, don’t move,” Draco warns. 

He doesn’t. Except to fist his fingers in the blankets. Even as he sobs out Draco’s name along with his release, his hips barely stutter. 

“Can I move now?” Harry asks, his voice ragged. “Because I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

“Yes… _please_!” 

The passion in Harry’s eyes crashes over Draco like a wave and Draco turns into it, embracing it. Harry’s mouth is hungry… his tongue both demanding and teasing. 

“Is that your idea of selfish?” Harry asks at last.

“Yes,” Draco gasps. “Harry!”

“Mmmm…” Harry is doing something indescribable with his tongue. “Then take your pants off. It’s my turn to be selfish.” 

“I want you. Inside me. _Please_ ,” Draco almost wails. 

Harry is careful and thorough and not at all hesitant. And Draco sees stars.

“ _Harry_!” 

As Harry empties himself into him… shouting his name… Draco shatters into a million pieces.

~*~*~*~

A moment… a lifetime… later, Draco opens his eyes. He feels completely whole within his body. Something had been missing before… and it isn’t now.

Harry is collapsed, more on him than next to him, and his beautiful eyes, laced with tears, are watching him. When Draco meets them, they hold his eyes… and Draco holds Harry’s back.

An emotion Draco can’t name wells up inside of him. The eyes aren’t enough. He reaches for Harry’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “I love you,” he whispers. It is a poor substitution for what he is feeling… what he wishes he could put into words, or even thoughts... but it is also the truth. 

“I love you, too.” Harry’s voice is so soft… so soft, but it is the world. 

They are wet, soaked with sweat, and sticky… and Draco begins to shiver. With a little maneuvering, made more complicated by the fact that Draco can’t… won’t… _refuses to_ … release Harry’s hand, they manage to get the blankets up over themselves. 

Draco begins shivering in earnest, though he is not sure why; he isn’t really cold anymore. His teeth begin to chatter, though, and Harry holds him tightly, placing a long kiss on his temple. 

“Draco, are you… crying…?”

“No… I…” He is, he realizes suddenly. “Yes… But I’m not upset. It’s not a bad thing, I promise.”

The illumination charm has faded; he can’t see Harry’s face any more than Harry can see his. It’s a promise whispered into the darkness. 

“I believe you.” Harry sounds concerned, worried, even, but he just pulls Draco closer. He presses his lips to Draco’s forehead… an unending kiss. 

The shivering is no match for the warmth radiating from Harry’s body, and the tears stop as quickly and inexplicably as they started. Draco snuggles into Harry, feeling safe, feeling loved. His eyes fall shut without his permission. He doesn’t want to sleep… but it has been a long day, and sleep tugs at him. 

A word floats through his consciousness, one last thought before sleep claims him: _Trust_. 

The nameless emotion was trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Remember, writers are fed with comments and kudos!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure that there will be one more chapter after this. 
> 
> Also, standard warnings apply.... This is _angst_ remember.

Sunlight is streaming in the windows of Grimmauld Place when Draco opens his eyes. Harry is beside him, his eyes closed, black lashes resting against golden skin, the blankets twisted horribly around naked arms and legs. Draco props himself up on an elbow… just enjoying the chance to watch Harry sleep.

That _never_ happens; Harry rises at dawn, almost regardless of anything else. 

Draco wonders how many times Harry has watched him sleep. Does his own face look as peaceful, as innocent, while he is sleeping? Does Harry wait for the rise and fall of his chest… simply overwhelmed with gratitude that he _exists_ , that he is there? 

Draco often wakes up alone… to tea and toast waiting for him on the bedside table.

He reaches out gently running the backs of his fingers down the side of Harry’s cheek, barely touching. Harry doesn’t stir. 

He slips from the bed and pulls on the pajama bottoms he _didn’t_ wear the night before, and one of Harry’s stupid why-shirts. This one is utterly threadbare and has a picture of a triangle and a rainbow on it. All the shirts smell like Harry, even when they are fresh from the laundry. Part of Draco is truly appalled; part of him loves nothing more than to wrap himself in Harry’s scent.

He turns back to the bed… back to Harry… and places a lingering kiss on his forehead, his lips just brushing the edge of his lightening scar. Harry doesn’t wake, but his lips turn up into a little smile that nearly finishes off Draco’s already bursting heart. 

The kitchen is _not_ empty when Draco enters it.

Hermione is making pancakes. Weasley is minding the bacon. They look up when he enters, then meet each other’s eyes in a way that makes Draco want very much to glance down to make sure that he actually _did_ put on his pajama bottoms.

He doesn’t. “Erm… what are you two doing here?” he asks instead. 

“It’s Saturday, Draco,” Hermione says, a ripple running through her voice.

“Oh.” He _had_ forgotten. If he had remembered, he probably wouldn’t have arrived in the kitchen barely dressed, limping slightly, and sporting at least two obvious love bites. 

Or entertaining the idea of tea, toast, and a naked breakfast in bed with Harry.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, that same ripple now skipping through her voice. She turns back to the pancakes, but he thinks he catches a glimpse of more-rosy-than-usual cheeks. 

“I did,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Glad to hear it,” Weasley says. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Weasley might not be able to cook, but his coffee is exquisite, and Draco has never quite been able to comprehend why he _also_ insists on visiting the coffee shop at least once a day. 

He takes the mug Weasley hands him. Cappuccino. Perfectly brewed, perfectly bitter, perfect foam. In his favorite rainbow mug. He takes a sip. Perfect temperature. “Thank you,” he says. 

The bottom step creaks and Harry shuffles into the kitchen, bare-chested and looking a little worse for wear; at least he has bothered to put on pajama bottoms. 

“Hi guys,” Harry says, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist. Draco is taller than Harry, but Harry is stronger, and he leans back into him, wrapping his fingers around Harry’s wrists and dropping his head back onto his shoulder. He closes his eyes as Harry places a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

“Good morning, Harry,” Weasley says brightly. “And how did _you_ sleep?”

“Fine… thanks,” Harry says, tightening his grip slightly before stepping out from behind Draco to accept the mug Weasley is holding out for him. He takes a sip, wrinkles his nose, and stirs in a heaping spoonful of sugar, ruining the perfect foam. 

Weasley scowls at him.

“You utter philistine,” Draco groans.

Harry shrugs, the smile playing on his lips clearly saying that he doesn’t care what _they_ think about his coffee habits.

Hermione laughs, a sound that reminds Draco of both bells and bubbles. She doesn’t do it very often, at least not around Draco, but the sound can never keep him from smiling in return. 

Hermione’s pancakes are delicious and she has remembered that he prefers jam and lots of butter to syrup. The jam is perfectly sweet and full of chunks of real strawberries. It is heavenly. 

He lets the conversation flow around him and over him. 

Running into old classmates at work… How one of the children from the pediatric ward Harry visits seems to be responding well to treatment… The Cannons and the fact that they are second-to-last this year, a dramatic improvement over the norm…

Until… 

“So mate,” Weasley says, “did you know that privacy spells exist for a reason? _Muffliato_ , for example—”

“ _Ron_ ,” Hermione hisses, going pink.

Draco is between bites and does _not_ choke on his pancakes, though can feel himself turning a color that probably perfectly matches the jam. _He forgot to cast a privacy spell._

“Is a spell I had to remind you about _countless_ times when Hermione first moved in here,” Harry says, his eyes dancing. He drags a bite of pancake through the syrup on his plate and stuffs it into his mouth. 

Hermione turns even redder and Draco makes a sound that is _almost_ a laugh.

~*~*~*~

Draco writes to his mother, continuing to lie and say that he intends to visit soon. He hates himself for it. He wants to see his mother—of course he does!—but part of him is afraid to leave the safe little world he has created at Grimmauld Place… and part of him is afraid that, once he is safe in his mother’s arms, he will never find the strength to leave.

And part of him is afraid to look her in the eye. 

What if she sees right through him… all the _hurt_ he has endured in the past years? 

What if she _doesn’t_? 

It was her hair the Dark Lord sent him… to remind him that he was failing in his mission to kill Dumbledore. If it hadn’t been for that lock of hair… would he have joined the side of Light and fought alongside Harry? Would his mother be dead right now? Would he? Would he and Harry have run away to New Zealand and left the British Wizarding World to deal with the Dark Lord on their own? 

Hermione calls it “what if” history… and says there’s no real point to it. She always touches the inside of her forearm when she says it, though; it’s barely visible anymore… where his aunt carved the word “mudblood” into her arm. What if he had done something—anything— _then_?

He works in his garden. 

He goes to the market and returns with piles of fresh vegetables. The kitchen always smells like spices. 

He goes to the coffee shop almost every day. 

Oddly, it is Weasley who takes him to the bookshop first. 

Draco has gone with Weasley to the coffee shop. Lately Weasley’s schedule has been changing with a regularity that irritates Draco… and he’s not even the one who has to live it. Still, he tries to accompany Weasley for his morning coffee. Whenever Weasley’s “morning” happens to be. 

It’s _actually _morning now and Draco is gratefully sipping a cappuccino. If he has coffee too late in the day he can’t sleep at all… which can lead to glorious post-bedtime activities with Harry… but ultimately makes Draco feel slightly guilty; Draco can always sleep in, but Harry rises at dawn.__

____

____

“D’you mind if we stop at the bookshop before we go back?” Weasley asks. 

_Draco blinks at him, his mind not fully on Weasley. _Did he just say_ bookshop?_

__“It’s not far,” Weasley said. “Just around the corner, really.”_ _

“It’s fine,” Draco says, nearly certain that it is. He is prefers to stay within the confines of his own little sphere—basically the coffee shop, the market, and the occasional walk to the park with Harry. But a bookshop… his eagerness to see that wonder easily overcomes the lingering misgivings he sometimes has about going somewhere new. “A _bookshop_ Weasley?” 

Weasley colors. “I want to get something for Hermione.” 

__“That sounds like the right place.”_ _

“Yeah… We were going to say it… soon… but… maybe I’ll just tell you now. Harry’s going to have fits, of course…” 

Draco raises his eyebrows. He can’t possibly be expected to respond to _that_? 

Weasley sips his coffee before offering an explanation. 

“We found a cottage,” Weasley blurts, glowing—almost literally—with pride. “It’s kind of small, but it has three bedrooms and a huge garden—you know, for someday—and the living room has these massive bookshelves…” 

“You’re moving out?” Draco asks, suddenly feeling as though the world has tipped, alarmingly, to one side. 

He’s not sure he can put into words… or even _thoughts_ … 

That first day… He remembers Weasley’s calm voice telling him he was okay… and how every time Weasley repeated it, he _believed_ him… if only for a few seconds. He remembers the tea. He remembers how Weasley _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to sleep in Harry’s bed… and told Harry when Draco couldn’t. 

He remembers Harry leading him—half-carrying him, really—from Elladora’s god _damned_ house of pleasure… and he knows that Weasley had been the one holding the fucking door. 

Weasley has been his rock, subtly supporting him, and Harry, too, these past few months. 

Who would have thought it? Certainty not sixteen-year-old Draco. 

Draco’s relationship with Harry was inevitable. His relationship with Hermione is something he’s worked on. His relationship with Weasley… well he’s just going to leave it as one of the mysteries of life. 

“Not ‘til the end of summer, at least, though,” Weasley says. “There’s a lot of work to be done on it, yeah? The bath won’t do and the kitchen’s a mess and most of the wallpaper makes the wallpaper at Grimmauld Place look bright and cheery.” 

“Merlin.” 

Weasley nods. “Something like that.” 

Draco picks up his coffee. “You’re leaving because of me, aren’t you?” he says quietly. He’s overheard him arguing with Harry about it. “Because Harry’s right—there’s lots of room… you don’t have to…” 

“It’s not what you’re thinking, Malfoy,” Weasley says slowly. He picks up his own coffee, studiously tracing the rim of his mug, watching his finger and not Draco, as he continues. “You need to understand… Harry was… in a bad way… after the war. After you left. ‘Course we didn’t know that part… But he had nightmares… he drank too much… he failed his psych evaluation for Auror training. 

“He just wasn’t in a place where he could really be _alone_ , you know? So I moved in… and then Hermione, too, when she finished Hogwarts. It was a bit awkward, actually, but we got it sorted. He told us about you—bit floored, we were, but we got over it—and how you disappeared…” 

“I shouldn’t have done that…” 

“No one’s arguing with you,” Weasley says. “But no one’s blaming you, either. And… well… I have to say, that _bitch_ made you damn near impossible to find.” Weasley looks up from his coffee. “Sorry… I…” 

“No, it’s okay.” Draco is surprised to find that it _is_. “I’m okay.” 

“I know.” The corners of Weasley’s eyes crinkle a bit when he smiles. “But that’s the thing, right? You _are_ okay. And Harry is too… And we’ve wanted our own place for so long… no more privacy spells, right?” 

Draco nods and concentrates on _not_ blushing. He drinks the last of his coffee. “So… the bookshop, then? To find something for Hermione’s new bookshelves?” 

Weasley’s right; it isn’t far. It’s actually closer than the market… but turning the corner off the street he’s accustomed to… is difficult—an observation Draco keeps to himself. 

The bell above the door jangles as they enter the shop. Draco breathes in, smelling new books and wood polish, and taking in the rows upon rows of colored book covers. The bookshop is narrow with an ornately carved staircase leading to a second floor. The man behind the counter is elderly, with greying hair and wire-rim glasses perched on his nose. It is everything a bookshop should be. 

“Good morning, gentlemen,” says the man, coming out from behind the counter. “Are you looking for something in particular?” He divides his gaze between Draco and Weasley. 

Weasley is beginning to go pink around the edges. “My wife,” he says. “She reads.” 

Draco rolls his eyes at the absurdity of this statement… and suddenly books are swirling around him in waves of colors and memories. For a moment it is all too much. 

_Breathe in… breathe out._

__“Malfoy?” Weasley has taken a step back, like he always does._ _

“I’m fine,” he says. The bookshop returns to normal. Draco looks down to find that he is holding _The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest_ , though he doesn’t remember picking it up. 

Weasley is eyeing him carefully. 

He flips through the pages, not seeing the words. “I’m fine,” he says, somewhat more convincingly, “So… a book for Hermione. Did you have anything particular in mind?” 

“Erm… bringing you here and letting you do all the work…?” 

The shopkeeper chuckles gently. “Fiction is down here. Non-fiction is upstairs. I’ll be right here if you need me, boys.” 

Draco nods his thanks. “All right,” he says to Weasley. “Let’s get to it, then. Fiction, obviously. Something romantic, I think.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” Draco says with authority. He wanders the shop for a few minutes, running his fingers over the spines of the books… _feeling_ , as much as looking for the proper book. “This one,” he says at last, holding out a thick book with a picture of Stonehenge on the cover and the words _Cross Stitch_ in swirling gold letters. 

Weasley eyes him suspiciously. “Cross Stitch? Isn’t that a kind of sewing? I mean, Hermione knits sometimes, but…” 

Draco only really laughs when he’s with Harry. But he smiles; it is almost like a laugh… but quieter. 

“It has nothing to do with sewing. A novel. Entirely fiction… historical fiction. Empowered, slightly bossy female narrator; she’s a veteran of one of the Muggle wars. Ginger love interest. Stonehenge as a time-turner.” It _is_ a good book, if somewhat difficult to place in any specific category. “Trust me, she’ll love it.” 

“Thanks, mate. Do you… want to get that one, too?” 

Draco looks down, surprised to find that he is still holding _The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest_. 

“No.” He puts the book down. 

____

~*~*~*~

When Draco returns for _The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest_ , the old man simply hands it to him; it looks as if he never bothered to reshelve it.

“I thought you’d be back for this,” he says, his voice is gravely and pleasant. “You’ve read the first two, I take it?”

“Yes. It’s maybe not such a good idea to play with fire, though,” he says.

“It’s maybe not such a good idea to kick a hornet’s nest, either,” the old man says. “But it doesn’t look like that’s going to stop you.”

“It might. We’ll see.”

Three days later, Draco closets himself in the library and reads the book. 

The bookshop becomes part of Draco’s routine. He doesn’t always buy something— though he now does have an impressive selection of cookbooks, mainly hailing from the areas surrounding the Mediterranean—but he visits almost every day.

He likes the old man. Mr. Ainsworth, a Muggle, obviously, grew up working in the bookshop… before inheriting it from his father. He has no children—only a nephew, studying marine biology, who comes in occasionally to help. Mr. Ainsworth is soft-spoken, refers to Draco as “my boy” as if he means it, and plies him with tea. He doesn’t talk much.

The store is always quiet, but with a steady trickle of customers. 

Draco can never quite suppress the wary look that crosses his face whenever the bell above the door rings… though he does not usually find it difficult to assist the occasional customer. While Mr. Ainsworth seems to be on a first name basis with all of the long-dead authors, his grasp on most of the contents of his store is shaky. Draco often finds himself filling in the gaps.

“I’m looking for the one about Anne Boleyn’s sister.” _The Other Boleyn Girl._

“My sister recommended a book… it takes place in Arizona about a girl who adopts a baby. Named Rabbit, or something.” _Turtle. Her name is Turtle. The Bean Trees._

“I don’t know… something with dragons in it.” _Have you read Eragon?_

Mr. Ainsworth pours more tea. “It’s getting easier, isn’t it, my boy? Dealing with customers?”

Draco nods, glancing at the door, though no one is coming through it. 

“It can be like that,” he continues, “when you’ve been away.” 

Draco opens his mouth to say something, but stops as Mr. Ainsworth holds up an age-spotted hand. 

“Of course I can tell… You’re not _quite_ like the lads who’ve been away at the wars… but not too different, either, I think.” The old man smiles gently. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter where you’ve been, my boy, so long as you come back.”

~*~*~*~

The road back, Draco’s learned, is neither smooth nor straightforward… much like the Snakes and Ladders game he had as a child; Draco always found himself climbing ladder after ladder, nearing his goal, only to meet a snake and find himself slithering right back to the beginning.

He is sliding now.

Moments before he was pouring milk over his granola, opening the _Daily Prophet_ and … seeing _the man_ staring back at him, leering slightly. Ministry Employee Arrested, the headline read. 

The man.

Draco doesn’t know his name… and studiously avoids reading the photo’s caption or any of the text. 

The man. The broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced man with blunt, bruising fingers. The man who liked to _use_ the emaciated model with bleach-blond hair. 

Draco abandons his breakfast… and the paper… and goes out into the garden. When Weasley finds him, he is sitting under his roses, watching a bee buzzing inside one of the whitest of the white flowers. It is too hot for the blanket, but it’s wrapped in it anyway.

He takes the cup Weasley hands him. Tea. Not in the rainbow mug. 

“You saw the paper, then?”

“I saw the paper. You arrested him?”

Weasley nods slowly and sits down beside Draco. “Should I be apologizing?” he asks. 

“For doing your job? That hardly seems appropriate.” 

“For something, though. I’ve upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” It’s so obviously a lie that Draco doesn’t even know why he’s bothered with it. 

“Draco…”

“It was just… a surprise. I just didn’t expect to see _him_ looking out at me over the breakfast table.”

“I should have warned you.”

“I’m not sure it would have helped, to be honest.” 

He’s quiet for a long moment, and Weasley doesn’t say a word.

“It’s just that… I _know_ him.” Draco cannot suppress a shudder. “I know his touch. I know what he smells like. I know what he _tastes_ like.”

Draco takes a hasty sip of tea. It’s sweeter than he normally likes it, but the sugar coats the bitterness of remembered taste and pulls the fragrant Assam to the forefront. He takes another sip, slower this time. Then another.

He never talks about his days at the _house of pleasure_ … not even to Harry. Maybe especially not to Harry. And he can’t think why he’s doing it now. 

But Weasley just sits there, his expression intense… but not judgmental, or horrified, or even pitying.

“He hurt you.”

“He hurt me.” Draco is quiet for a moment. “A lot of people hurt me, though.”

Weasley never goes noticeably pale, but sometimes his freckles stand out more than usual. Now they are practically leaping off his face. 

“I would throw every single one of them in Azkaban,” Weasley says, his voice tight. 

Draco shrugs. “That wouldn’t be right. I made a contract. They made a contract. Everyone knew what they were getting, what they were giving.” 

Draco’s words came out sounding almost matter-of-fact, but his hands are shaking violently as he brings the mug to his mouth. 

He shuts his eyes against the remembered violations… Hands on a body that was never his… the sharp crack as flesh that wasn’t his blossomed and stung… The body that he had no right to simply waiting as strangers forced their way inside it.

Draco works hard to sip the tea without spilling any.

“I… know… This one needed to be arrested, though.” Weasley’s voice holds an agony that causes Draco to open his eyes. “He didn’t always pay for it, Malfoy. There were a couple of rentboys, Muggles, one of them died… you know Muggles aren’t as strong as we are. And there was this model—he’s only seventeen fucking years old—with _dozens_ of memory charms on him.”

Draco feels his stomach flip. Or maybe his stomach stays put and the rest of the world flips. “Ron… don’t…”

“He has a stepson, Draco! A fourteen-year-old _Muggle_ stepson… with white-blond hair and grey eyes.”

The mug Draco is holding explodes, splashing tea over them both. 

“He hasn’t been hurt,” Weasley says quickly. “He never touched him…” 

“And now he can’t.” Draco’s voice sounds far away and empty. Even to himself. “How did you know?”

“I don’t know… We’d been working the case for a while… the model, obviously magic was involved… and I saw the way he looked at you… it was a hunch, I guess. I followed through.”

They are quiet for a while, the typical city sounds, distant, the hum of the bees in the roses, gentle. 

“I think he knew me,” Draco says at last. “That day. On the street.”

Weasley nods.

“The… clients… they mostly saw what they expected to see… a lost lover, the movie star they fancied, someone they just wanted to fuck. It was a job, I guess. No matter how much I hated it, no matter how awful it was, even when it _hurt_ … I wasn’t really _me_. 

“But _he_ … he always seemed to see right through the Polyjuice. I wore someone else’s body... but he fucked _me_.” 

Draco lifts his eyes… and finds Weasley’s staring back at him… eyes wide and blue, anger and a helpless despair scrawled across his face. 

Draco feels a great gasping sob being ripped from him… he can’t contain it and he can’t control it and he feels himself falling forward without even the energy to stop himself.

Weasley’s arms catch him, wrap around him, and Draco holds on tight. He presses his face into Weasley’s shoulder… until he finds the strength to hold himself upright again. 

Weasley hands him a handkerchief. “You’re all right,” he says.

“How the hell do you know that?” Draco snaps. He feels… loose… as though parts of him might fly away at any moment. Keeping track of all those parts—keeping them contained—is taking almost more energy than he has. He does it anyway.

“Shit, Malfoy, look at yourself. I have never seen anyone… Do you have any idea how fucking strong you are? Tenacious. Stubborn as shit, maybe. You survived a fucking war. And then that house of fucking _pleasure_. I wouldn’t have lasted a week in that place… but you… _you_ survived it. _You_ came back to us. And every single fucking day… don’t think I don’t see you… holding it all together, putting the pieces _back_ together. You’re one of the strongest… one of the _bravest_ people that I know.” 

Draco regards him carefully. “Us?” he says finally, hitting on the one thing he feels like he can address. 

Weasley smiles and shakes his head. “You have to know that once Harry finally confided in us, he couldn’t stop talking about you. He loves you; that makes you family to me and Hermione. We would have stopped at nothing to bring you home.” Weasley stops abruptly. “I would go out and _kill_ every single person who hurt you,” he says softly. “I want to.” 

Draco believes him. “Don’t,” he says. “Really.” Draco’s head falls forward into his hands. “I don’t want you to. I just want to put it all behind me and never think about it again.”

The mug is far beyond a _Repario._ “I’ll go get you another cup of tea,” Ron says. 

Draco lets himself take a deep breath and let it out slowly before raising his head. “No,” he says, unwinding himself from the blanket. “Thanks. But… I have things to do.”

Weasley nods, turning back toward the house. Draco takes two steps with him before pausing, pretending to see a weed poking through the lavender. 

Weasley has almost reached the house when Draco looks back up. “But, Weasley? Could you get rid of that paper?”

“It’s already gone, mate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Outlander_ , by Diana Gabaldon was published under the title _Cross Stitch_ in the UK. If you haven't read it, I definitely recommend that you do.
> 
> And, as always, kudos, and _especially_ comments are greatly appreciated!!!
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as [belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com/).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! Thank you all for waiting patiently for the update! I hope you enjoy it!

The second time Draco sees one of his clients, he is at the market with Granger, debating with her the merits of oranges versus grapefruits as a breakfast fruit. The man is across the way, his cart piled high with the sorts of boxes and packages that are no longer allowed in the Grimmauld Place kitchen. 

Draco freezes. His fingers refuse to release the grapefruit he is holding, refuse to let it fall into his market bag. 

“Draco?”

“I’m okay,” he says automatically. He is breathing; it’s not a lie. 

She follows his gaze. “You know him?”

“Yes.” He forces his fingers to let go of the grapefruit and pick up another.

“From… before?” She is eyeing the man—who looks like a perfectly ordinary man, the sort of man who reads his children bedtime stories and takes them to the playground; things he does, in fact, do—with distaste. 

Draco is struck by the sudden urge to defend him. “His wife died. She was a half-blood… and got some type of cancer. Usually magic destroys cancer, but sometimes it just feeds it. She was tired one day and went to take a nap. The next day she couldn’t get out of bed. She died three weeks later. There wasn’t anything anyone could do. He came to say goodbye.”

“Draco… I…”

Something angry surges through Draco. “Listen to me, Hermione. From the _second_ I signed Elladora’s contract to the day Harry pulled me out of there, there were exactly _three hours_ when I didn’t hate every single thing about my life. I felt used… _all the time_. And not even like a person, but more like a _thing_ … like I was… a tool or something. I hated the things I did… the way people touched me… the bodies I wore. I hated the way the door just opened and shut and I couldn’t control any of it…”

He takes a deep breath. 

“But sometimes, just sometimes, I felt like I was _actually_ helping someone. Maybe even in a way no one else could.” He thrusts the market bag at her. “I don’t like oranges.” 

His hands are shaking and tears are threatening to overflow his eyes by the time he makes it to the tiny row of tables that runs along the edge of the market. He sits at the first empty one he comes to. 

Hermione is still holding the market bag, looking stunned. The man seems to be contemplating bananas. The other shoppers are simply… shopping. 

Draco had tried for him… in a way that he rarely tried for anyone. He worked through his own pain to hold the man tenderly as he sobbed into his neck. 

_Evangelista._

That was her name. They had three daughters… Agatha, Ellis, and Marigold… and he told him about each of them in turn, and how much they missed _her_ ….

Draco’s eyes had burned to cry with him then… they are burning now. 

“Excuse me.”

Draco looks up into the man’s eyes. He is holding out a fresh handkerchief.

“You look like you could use this.” 

Draco takes it. And lets the tears fall freely into the checkered cloth. He takes a deep breath, and wipes his eyes. “Thank you.” He refolds the handkerchief and offers it back.

The man waives it away, looking deeply uncomfortable, but resolved. “I don’t know what to say, except… it will get better. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but it will. I’ve been there. Those edges that are cutting you open right now… someday they won’t be as sharp.”

A crush like Elladora’s silencing curse closes around his throat. He blinks at the man. 

“I… I’m sorry to have intruded,” the man says, taking a step back.

“No… I… Thank you.” Draco forces out the words. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says, turning away. 

Draco turns the handkerchief over in his hands. He doesn’t think that the tears are for something he has _lost_ … he thinks they are, perhaps, for something he has _found _.__

____

~*~*~*~

As Weasley predicted, Harry does, in fact, throw a fit when he and Hermione announce that they have purchased a house.

The treacle tart Draco made for dessert effectively keeps Harry from storming from the kitchen… but it does not keep him from shouting a bit.

“Harry, we’re moving to Devonshire, not the moon!” Hermione says, throwing up her hands in exasperation. 

“But you can’t go anywhere! I _need_ you,” Harry says. And suddenly he’s not shouting, but sitting there looking very, _very_ young. 

“Oh, Harry, you don’t,” she says, her voice and expression softening as she puts her arms around him. “You need your own space, just like we need ours.”

“But… there’s lots of space here…”

“No, Harry.” She smooths his hair a little. “This is _your_ home… and Draco’s, too, I think. And Ron and I need _our_ own home. You must understand that.”

“But…” He stops, looking crestfallen, and nods slowly.

“We’ll come visit, and you and Draco will come visit us. And it’s not as if we’re moving out tomorrow, Harry. There’s quite a bit of work to do on the place before we can live there.” 

Harry smiles, shakily, still looking incredibly young. “I’ll come and help, Hermione. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Harry.” She kisses his cheek. 

Draco hands him another slice of treacle tart.

~*~*~*~

Weasley and Hermione spend much of their free time working on the cottage. They meet with plumbers and builders. They intend to do much of the work themselves… but everyone knows that only professionals should mess around with plumbing charms.

Grimmauld Place seems strange without them—empty and echoing—but Draco would be lying if he said he wasn’t also enjoying long evenings in the library curled up with Harry. 

Sometimes Harry goes to the cottage with Weasley and Hermione, and occasionally Draco goes too… only to spend an uncomfortable evening always looking over his shoulder. 

It’s getting easier… to be out of Grimmauld Place, to be among people. But it isn’t easy yet, and Draco has to wonder if it ever will be again.

The cottage isn’t occupied yet, or even truly habitable, but it is already hosting a near constant stream of visitors. They _must_ be shocked to see him there… with Harry. And he can’t quite believe that they do not know where he has been for the past three years… but they never say a word. They are polite, friendly even, and Draco is grateful. 

He finds that he genuinely likes Harry’s friends… though he prefers them one at a time and at a slight distance. 

There’s a group tonight. 

Luna he doesn’t mind, nor Neville and Ginny. But he finds Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be a bit too much… especially Finnegan with his loud laugh and his propensity to touch _everyone_ ; he cannot seem to address anyone, or even stand near someone, without placing a hand on them in some way. 

And he cannot seem to remember that Draco doesn’t like to be touched.

Often when he reaches out, Draco flinches and the hand doesn’t land. But sometimes he freezes… and he is frozen now, Finnegan’s hand resting on his shoulder, as he laughs about _something_ … 

Draco is remembering to breathe. 

Luna materializes out of nowhere. “Seamus,” she says, her voice floating, “I don’t think Draco wants to be touched right now.” She gently removes Finnegan’s hand from his shoulder. 

Somehow having the pressure _gone_ is worse.

_Breathe in… breathe out._

Draco isn’t sure how she’s doing it, because he is _sure_ that Luna is not touching him, but he finds himself being moved—like a small boat on a breeze—out of the crowded kitchen and into the quiet of the garden. There is a bench, and Luna shepherds him to it and sits beside him, her should almost, but not quite, touching his. 

The garden is overrun, but the heady smell of blooming flowers is thick in the sultry nighttime air. It’s not really dark, and the sky is rich velvet blue, speckled with stars. 

“Are we looking at Draco?” Luna asks. 

“I am.” The great snake winds its way through the northern sky. 

“I am looking where you look,” Luna says. 

They are silent for the longest time, listening to the night sounds and the soft laughter coming out of the kitchen. 

There is a bang, a crash, and brash laughter with a distinctly Irish flair. 

Draco is on his feet before he realizes he has moved. So is Luna. The distance between them has not changed.

“I need to go,” he says. He touches her hand for the smallest fraction of a second. “Will you tell Harry?”

He is gone and in the front hall of Grimmauld Place before she can respond. 

For a moment he just stands there. The cottage was too loud… too crowded; the house is too quiet… too empty. Part of him wants to go back. 

Instead he goes into the kitchen to find something warm to drink.

He is in the library, reading, and sipping chamomile tea out of his rainbow mug when Harry walks in. 

“Hey…,” he says, dropping down on the ottoman and softly kissing him.

Draco wonders why it took Harry so long to come back… had Luna decided that he needed some time alone and simply delayed in telling Harry that he had left? Had she delivered his message with enough calmness that Harry stayed, sure that Draco was fine, to finish his beer and hear the rest of Finnegan’s jokes?

Harry tastes like beer, dark and bitter. 

Maybe he just didn’t care enough to leave his friends….

“I missed you. But Luna said you wanted some peace, that you were fine… You _are_ aren’t you?” Harry takes his hand in his own.

“Yes…,” Draco hesitates. “Your friends are… kind. But… sometimes they are a little… much.”

“I’m sorry. I mean… after everything… they probably shouldn’t… I can…”

“Harry, _stop_.” He threads his fingers through Harry’s. “It’s not… that… although it doesn’t help. But vast quantities of beer and loud jokes… That’s not how we…” Draco’s voice falls away. 

Suddenly he misses Vince and Greg so much it hurts… Not the way they were at the end of a year of Death Eating… but before… when they were like big, lovable puppies, loyal and honest, following him everywhere. And he misses Pansy’s snide wit, and Blaise’s knowing smile, and Theo… who was just always _there_ , maybe his one true, friend… 

“Harry… my friends… What happened to them?”

“Gregory Goyle is in Azkaban….”

“He enjoyed being a Death Eater too much,” Draco says sadly; Vince would have ended up there, too, had he lived. “But the others…”

“Well, Zabini and Parkinson were never Marked so… Zabini went to the States, New York, I think. But it might have been Boston, or even Chicago. And Parkinson went to live with a great-aunt or something. In Tokyo.”

“Her mother is something like one-quarter Japanese.” Draco has the vague impression that Harry is stalling. “And Theo?”

Harry doesn’t say anything… and Draco feels a cold dread take root in his stomach. 

“Harry, what happened to Theo?”

Theo _was_ Marked… probably with even more reluctance than Draco, and Draco thought he received a sentence similar to his own… so…

Draco already knows the answer.

“He hanged himself,” Harry says quietly, not looking at Draco. “Just about the time you disappeared. He couldn’t make his payments either and he chose… differently….”

Draco feels hot tears splash over their joined hands. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, to see Harry crying, but he is. 

“It wasn’t fair,” Harry says. He is now bowed so low his forehead is almost touching Draco’s knees. “It wasn’t fair for him… it wasn’t fair for you. You don’t know how _hard_ Hermione worked to get the Reparations Act overturned, but… ”

Popular opinion said they deserved it. Popular opinion may have even been right. Draco threads his free hand into Harry’s hair and lets him rest there.

“I was so scared,” Harry whispers. “When we heard about Theo… and I couldn’t find you… I didn’t think you had the money for your reparations payments either…. And I knew you weren’t in Azkaban. I almost couldn’t look for you, afraid that I would find you swinging in an attic somewhere…” Harry is gasping for breath, and Draco fists his hand into his hair and clenches their joined hands together so tightly it hurts. 

He never considered it. Not once. 

He wasn’t willing to accept a lifetime in prison, either. So he sold himself to Elladora instead… and simply endured… _took_ … all the misery, all the pain that went along with that choice. 

He’s not making a judgment… both of them avoided Azkaban. But he is here, holding Harry’s hand as tightly as Harry is holding his. 

He regrets many, _many_ things… but choosing to stay alive, no matter the cost, isn’t one of them. 

“I wouldn’t have, Harry. I promise.” 

The shadows in the library are thick… his illumination charm must be wearing off… but when Harry raises his head he can see Harry’s eyes, bright and green and brimming with tears. He looks so young. Maybe even younger than the first time they kissed. “I _promise_ you, Harry Potter. I wouldn’t have done it.” 

“Will you take me to bed?” Harry asks. 

Draco kisses him, long and loving, his tongue sliding slowly against Harry’s, his hand, tender now, in his hair. “You know I will,” he whispers. “Always.”

Draco is gentle with Harry… taking the time to kiss and caress every inch of him before opening him carefully. 

“Is this what you want?” he whispers. 

“Y-yes. Please.” He is fairly sure Harry is crying.

“Shhh… I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

~*~*~*~

Draco is in love with Harry’s dedication to “his” children, as he calls them: the tiny, sick babies that he rocks with love and endless patience, and the older, sick children that he entertains with magic tricks that really are magic.

But Draco cannot go with him. He doesn’t even really wish he could; he is done with things that hurt… and holding a sick child… a child that might die… that’s not a pain he’s willing to accept. Not even for Harry. Not even for the child.

He accepts Harry’s invitation to the pet shelter instead. 

The little kennels they keep the dogs in are eerily similar to the white, windowless room Elladora kept him in… save that, in the top half of the doors, there are small, bared windows.

Bars and people peering in at him were, at least, one indignity he did not have to suffer. 

Harry has a routine… dogs he walks, plays fetch with, grooms. Draco is following Harry, holding a leash and a pocketful of dog treats, when he sees her—a Border Collie, at least in part, and so black that she is not so much a color, but the absolute absence of color. She has a small patch of white on her chest… and it’s the only proof he has that she’s anything more than a shadow, crouched and quivering at the far back of her kennel. 

Cell.

Whatever it is, it is _not_ a room, and Draco has the door open and is inside without pausing to consider… anything.

The dog is cornered, and clearly terrified; she might bite him. 

Draco almost doesn’t care. Whatever else, he is not leaving this dog trapped between white, windowless walls. 

She doesn’t move. If anything she sinks lower to the ground and her quivering becomes audible, more a purr than a proper growl, though the sound is anything but happy. He drops to the floor next to the door, careful not to look at her, and transfers a treat into the palm of his hand, which he holds open and flat on the floor. 

Draco doesn’t move or turn his head, but he knows Harry is watching. He feels the tingle of magic and the dry dog biscuits become something squishier and smellier and probably a lot more enticing to a hungry dog. 

A moment later he feels the brush of her whiskers as she snatches the treat from his hand, before retreating back against the wall. 

He places another bit of squishy, smelly meat into his hand. A moment later she is back, taking the treat before retreating… not all the way back to the wall this time. 

Three treats later, she is lying by his side.

Draco hears voices on the other side of the door.

“What…? He can’t be in there! That dog, she bites!”

“Shhh…” Harry’s voice. 

“But no one can get near her! She’s scheduled to be put down.”

“She’s eating out of his hand.”

A pause. “What?”

Draco doesn’t move, except to keep placing treats into his hand for the dog to take. After the last treat is gone, she simply rests her head on his knee, waiting for him to do something.

Her name is Lisbeth. He knows it like he knows his own name. Like he knows she is coming home with them. 

He lets Harry, somewhat belligerently, work out the technicalities of the adoption papers. 

“But… we don’t normally encourage our volunteers to adopt…”

“Luckily, it’s _Draco_ who’s adopting the dog, isn’t it?”

“And the entire household has to agree… and meet the dog…”

At Draco’s soft encouragement, Lisbeth obligingly sniffs Harry’s hand; he doesn’t try to touch her, and she doesn’t try to bite him. “I agree. Completely,” Harry says.

~*~*~*~

By the end of the week, Lisbeth has stopped slinking through the halls of Grimmauld Place, stopped starting at the normal household noises. She has stopped cowering whenever Weasley walks into a room, though she will not allow him to touch her. If they move slowly enough, Harry and Hermione are allowed to scratch behind her ears.

Lisbeth follows Draco everywhere and can generally be found lying within a few feet of him. 

He walks her every day, finding himself straying farther and farther from his little sphere, until he knows the neighborhood—and even some of the people in it—fairly well. 

He is passing the bookshop when he hears a familiar voice. 

“Draco, my boy! Come in for a bit. Keep an old man company.”

“I… Thank you, sir. But I have my dog with me today.” He gestures to Lisbeth, who is peering around his knee.

“So bring her along. She’s a pretty thing.”

Much to Draco’s surprise, Lisbeth has taken two bold steps forward and is presenting herself for a petting, her black fur all but glistening in the sunshine. 

Lisbeth enters the bookshop at a half crouch, nose working overtime, and investigates the entire first floor before curling up, with one eye open, behind the counter. 

Draco spends a comfortable morning with Mr. Ainsworth, drinking tea, and comes home with a job. 

To Draco’s surprise, Harry is less than thrilled.

“No,” Harry says, as if he has a right to dictate whether or not Draco works and where. 

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, there’s no reason for you to work! We have lots of money. You don’t have to!”

“That’s not really the point,” Draco says. “And anyway, Harry, _you_ have lots of money, not me.” 

“I have more than enough so that you don’t ever, _ever_ have to work! And I don’t want you to!” Harry’s voice is rising toward a shout. Lisbeth lets out a little growl.

“I will not be kept like some sort of a pet, Harry,” Draco says gently, more to soothe the dog than to soothe Harry, whom he would really prefer to shout at. Or possibly hit.

Draco is taken aback by that thought. He can’t _really_ imagine striking Harry. But he is _imagining_ imagining it… and even triply removed, the act makes him feel awful. 

“I… I’m not… oh… oh _fuck_.” 

The idea of hurting Harry makes him feel sick and it is that, even more than Harry half sitting, half collapsing onto the ottoman, his face dropping into his hands, that deflates his anger. “Oh fuck,” Harry says again, his voice little more than a whisper. 

Lisbeth’s nose twitches a little and she slinks, her nose pushed far out in front of her, towards Harry. She pushes right between Harry’s wrists and his chest, forcing his head out of his hands, forcing his eyes to lift to Draco’s. 

“I’m sorry… Draco, I didn’t… I’m so, _so_ sorry….” 

Without giving it any thought at all, he is sitting on the floor in front of Harry.

The rug in the library, once a grand Persian rug, is now worn and moth-eaten in places and Draco runs his finger over the rough threads. 

Lisbeth slips away as Harry slides down onto the floor beside him. 

“It seems like all I ever do is protect people… and you’re the _one_ person I cannot _ever_ seem to keep safe.”

“It’s not your job to protect me. Surely you know that?” He traces his thumb along Harry’s cheekbone before kissing him gently. “And it’s a bookshop, Harry. It’s a bookshop five _blocks_ from here. Stop acting like I’ve agreed to lead packs of Muggles on a six week trek through the Andes Mountains.” 

“Last time… before… you disappeared. You didn’t come back.”

“Harry…”

Draco stops. He hears the fear in Harry’s voice… but he also feels like he’s been slapped. 

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you this time,” he says, his voice measured and crisp. “I can’t survive on what Mr. Ainsworth is paying me. And if I’m going to be _kept_ , I would rather it be by you.”

Draco stands up and walks out of the library. Lisbeth follows, like a dark shadow, behind him. 

The sun is out now, but it has been raining for three days and the garden is overrun with weeds. The garden is in a bit of a lull at the moment. The flush of springtime and early summer blooms have faded and the dark jewels of autumn flowers have not yet begun. 

Black-eyed susans stare at him; he thinks they look censorious. 

Draco kneels to pull weeds while Lisbeth lies down in the sunshine, her head resting on outstretched paws. She’s not asleep and her dark eyes are alert and watchful. 

The sun is hot on his neck and Draco can feel the skin burning. He can feel the tears running down his cheeks, feel the cracks in his heart. 

He can feel someone behind him. 

“What do you want, Potter? I’m busy. First I have to finish weeding your garden, then I have to make your dinner, and then I have to let you fuck me into the mattress. Or is there something _else_ you wanted?”

Draco can _hear_ himself saying all the wrong things… nasty things, cruel things. Things he doesn’t even _mean_. His words make him want to vomit… he says them anyway.

“It’s your garden, Draco,” Harry says quietly.

Draco can hear the tears... the _pain_ , sharp and raw, in Harry’s voice. He doesn’t turn around. He can’t bear to see the look on Harry’s face. 

“That first day… the first day you were here… I asked Hermione to do three things. I asked her to verify that your reparations were paid in full; they were. I asked her to have your wand cleared so you could use it again. And I asked her to transfer the money from my Order of Merlin into your vault at Gringotts.”

Harry’s Order of Merlin came with an award of a hundred thousand galleons. 

“You won’t have to _sell yourself_ to survive… ever again… To anyone. Least of all me.” Harry pauses a moment before going on. “If you wanted you could leave here and still work for Mr. Ainsworth. You could go to be with your mother in France. You… if you don’t want to stay here… if you don’t want to stay with me… you have enough money to go… wherever you want.”

It couldn’t hurt more if Draco had picked up a knife and stabbed himself in his own heart. 

“In fact, you have more right to live in this house, I think, than I do. If you want to stay… if you want me to move out… I will.” 

Draco still can’t turn around. “Harry…”

“It’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”

Draco stays, kneeling on the damp ground, as Harry slowly walks back into the house.

~*~*~*~

Draco dresses carefully for dinner—far more carefully than a dinner in the basement kitchen of Grimmauld Place would normally warrant.

And he’s not really surprised to find Harry looking not very rumpled at all and wearing a sport coat. The table is set and the candles are lit and Harry is pouring wine when he walks in.

Harry smiles, a shy, tentative smile. “Hi,” he says. 

Generations of etiquette lessons abandon Draco and all he can manage is a shy “Hi,” in return.

Harry’s made a fiddly sort of dinner, the kind he excels at, but genuinely hates to cook: Fish with an artichoke-tomato vinaigrette beside grilled vegetables, and potatoes, roasted to perfection with fresh herbs and asiago cheese. There is crusty bread and flavored oil to dip it in, and a pile of greens… because Draco loves them.

A rich, flourless cake, drizzled with ganache and topped with fresh raspberries sits on the sideboard. 

They eat quietly, the only sounds being the occasional scrap of cutlery on stonewear, the gentle ring of a wineglass being set down. He knows Harry keeps glancing at him, Draco’s doing it too, but their eyes never meet.

Finally Draco can’t take it anymore. “Everything is wonderful, Harry,” he says at last. “Thank you.”

It is as if Harry has been waiting for Draco to speak. “Draco, I…”

Draco leans forward, reaching across the table for Harry’s hand. “Don’t, Harry. I know… I _know_.”

He brings Harry’s hand to his lips and kisses the knuckles. Apologizing isn’t his strong suit… which is too bad, given the way he’s prone to lashing out whenever he’s hurt or afraid. 

“Harry, I _know_ … And I didn’t mean… any of it…. The things I said… I am so, _so_ sorry.” Draco takes a deep breath, then kisses Harry’s hand again… rather than raising his eyes to meet Harry’s. 

“You held me,” he says softly, stroking Harry’s knuckles, still not looking up. “At… Elladora’s… when you didn’t even know it _was_ me. You held me and you healed me and you let me sleep in your arms.” He’d clung to that moment for three full days… he would have clung to it forever if Harry hadn’t returned and brought him home. “I do _not_ believe you have _ever_ —even when I technically was—seen me as something bought and paid for.”

“Draco…”

Draco’s hands are shaking and Harry squeezes them. 

Suddenly Harry is beside him, holding him tightly. “Just breathe, Draco,” Harry says, sounding far away. “I’ve got you. I just need you to breathe.” 

Draco does. 

He presses his face into Harry’s shoulder, holds on tightly, and breathes. 

“I’ve got you. I won’t let go,” Harry says.

Draco lets out a soft sob and Harry just holds him, running gentle fingers across his back. When he pulls back a little, Draco isn’t shaking quite so badly. He reaches up to trace Harry’s cheek. “I won’t let go either, Harry.”

“You… you aren’t going to leave me?” Harry’s voice is tremulous, his eyes overbright. 

“Harry, I’m not going to leave you. I’m not.”

“Everyone leaves.”

“If you mean Ron and Hermione… Harry…” Draco is at a loss for words. 

“Not so much them. I know they’re not really leaving…. But my parents. Sirius. Remus. Dumbledore. Even Snape! They all left me!”

Draco feels a wave of grief at the mention of his former Head of House. How he respected—maybe even loved—that man! He remembers how hard Severus had worked to protect him. Draco’s life would have been very, _very_ different if he had survived the War.

“Even Hedwig!” 

“Your owl?” 

Harry is crying now, tears running down his cheeks.

“She was my first friend. When I went to my aunt and uncle’s for the summers… she was the only one who didn’t _hate_ me. And then she left! When I was leaving Privet Drive… they killed her!”

Draco finds that tears are, once again, slipping down his own cheeks. “Oh, Harry, they didn’t leave you. They died. They were killed. _Murdered._ They didn’t leave you! They would never have! They loved you!”

Harry’s arms come around Draco as Draco holds him close, rubbing his back, making shushing noises, and kissing Harry’s forehead over and over. 

“They loved you. And I love you. And I’m not going to leave you. I promise.”

Harry just holds him tighter, his face buried in Draco’s neck. When Harry breaks free, Draco’s shirt is damp. Harry palms the tears off his cheeks. “Are you still going to work for Mr. Ainsworth?” he asks, tentatively. Hesitantly. 

Draco takes a deep breath. “Yes, I am.” He tilts Harry’s chin up and meets his eyes. “I am going to go to work. I am going to because I _want_ to, and because I enjoy the time I spend at the bookshop, and because Mr. Ainsworth needs me. And then I am going to come home. To _our_ home. To you. Always.” 

Draco drops his mouth to Harry’s kissing him almost roughly. “I will always come back to you. I love you.”

Harry nods slowly.

“Harry, you’d better cut that cake.”

“Yeah. I think I’d better.”

~*~*~*~

Professor Lupin knew what he was doing, prescribing chocolate for all manner of heartbreak and emotional trauma. He’d made Draco tea and given him chocolate biscuits the day his boggart turned out to be his father… telling him that he would never amount to anything.

Harry’s cake is divine, and before Draco has finished even half his slice he is feeling better. 

It’s not particularly easy to eat with his fingers intertwined with Harry’s… but he manages. 

“Harry?” he asks. “The money… from your Order of Merlin… why did you give it to me?”

“I didn’t want you to be destitute… to feel like you had to stay because you had nowhere else to go… I was going to tell you. Maybe more gracefully than I did.”

Draco snorts. “Okay. And I appreciate it—I do. But now tell me the real reason. The reason it was the Order of Merlin money. One hundred thousand galleons is way more money than necessary… if you were only trying to give me a safety net.”

“I’m not poor. It just seemed…”

“Harry.” Draco gives his hand a little squeeze. 

“I just didn’t want it,” Harry says, his voice sounding like torn paper. “People died. _So_ many people died… Fred… Remus… Tonks… They were the real heroes… and I got the award.” Harry frowns. “Like my Triwizard winnings, too. Cedric _died_ … because of me… and they gave me the money anyway. I gave that to Fred and George so they could start their joke shop.” 

Draco could argue with Harry about who the real hero of the Second Wizarding War was… but he doesn’t see the point; Harry will never believe him.

“Surely you don’t intend for me to open a joke shop?”

“You could,” Harry says, a small smile finding his lips.

“I could not,” Draco says primly.

**Epilogue**

_Seven Years Later_

“Goodnight, Draco, I’m off,” Mr. Ainsworth says, picking up his hat and his cane, which he doesn’t _really_ need. “Be sure you lock up properly. And don’t forget to turn off the lights when you leave.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.” 

Draco purchased the bookshop a little over three years ago; Mr. Ainsworth, who was supposed to retire but didn’t, is now technically _his_ employee, though Draco would never be so rude as to actually point that out. 

If Draco wants to leave every light in the shop on all night long he, technically, can. 

But he would have missed valediction. 

Draco looks up in time to see that Mr. Ainsworth is holding the door, and tipping his hat to a sea of bouncing red curls. 

The curls say a hurried, but polite, thank you and greeting to the elderly gentleman before they throw themselves into Draco’s arms. “Uncle Draco! I’ve missed you!”

“My beautiful Rose!” he says, pressing a kiss through those curls before setting her down. He’s missed her too. He and Harry have spent a long weekend in France, visiting his mother; normally he sees her almost every day. “Hello, Hermione. Hugo.”  
Hermione kisses his cheek. Hugo, holding his mother’s hand, regards him solemnly. Rose is all bounce and giggles; generally if Hugo wants something said, he simply waits until his sister says it.

“Is Ron next door?” Hermione asks. 

The third time Ron had been seriously injured in the line of duty, he decided that opening a business might be a better choice than an Auror for a husband and father. He took the empty space beside the bookshop and opened a coffee shop. They put in a door between the spaces and both businesses have been thriving ever since.

“He’s just finishing up, I think.” 

“Uncle Draco, do you have any new books for me?”

“It’s only been three days, pet.” 

Rose wrinkles her nose. Hermione laughs.

“You only have yourself to blame, Draco. Honestly, who reads _Pride and Prejudice_ to a four-year-old?”

“To be fair, she was almost five,” he says. “And I only read half of it to her. She read the other half to me.”

It had taken months, with Draco flooing over every night at Rose’s bedtime. They had started slowly… with Rose only reading a word here and there. By the end of the book she was reading pages at a time.

Draco will freely admit to having created a monster. 

“Take a peek in the children’s section, won’t you Rose, and make sure it’s tidy? I’ll be closing up soon.”

“Yes, Uncle Draco,” Rose says and scampers off. 

Hugo disengages himself from his mother and ducks behind the counter. Draco knows that if he looks, he will see him sitting down with Lisbeth’s head in his lap. They are the very best of friends. 

Half an hour later the Granger-Weasley family has gone home and Draco is alone in the bookshop. He walks through it one last time. Everything is in order, of course. The children’s section is immaculate, not that he ever doubted Rose. 

The railing to the second floor is smooth under his hand.

He clips on Lisbeth’s leash, makes sure the lights are, indeed, turned off, and locks the door. 

It’s drizzling slightly, the streetlights shimmering in the darkness. 

Grimmauld Place is warm, dry, and smells delightful when he pushes open the door. 

Harry still doesn’t like to cook, but he had discovered the joys of bread-making. And a loaf of warm-from-the-oven bread, along with a pile of fresh greens, will turn even the simplest bowl of soup into a delicious, hearty meal. 

Harry meets him in the front hall. “You’re back,” he says.

Draco smiles. “I’m back.” 

Draco sheds his coat before reaching for Harry. He cups his head gently, leaning down for a gentle kiss. Harry’s lips are soft, tasting of bread, butter, and a fruity red wine. Draco closes his eyes and deepens the kiss, kissing Harry like he’s been gone for days, not hours.

“I’m home,” he says.

_~Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey through Draco's recovery with me. I have been reading, and very much enjoying, all your comments. Thank you so much! 
> 
> As always, your kudos, thoughts, questions, and constructive criticism are always very welcome! ~ Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: This work is now COMPLETE! With five chapters. But I never did leave you with any terrible cliffhangers... so there's that. 
> 
> As always, kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are welcome and _greatly_ appreciated!
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as [ belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com).


End file.
